


Breathe

by eternalsojourn



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-21
Updated: 2011-03-21
Packaged: 2017-10-21 08:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalsojourn/pseuds/eternalsojourn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames puts Arthur through the paces in a sparring session.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> [This prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/17669.html?thread=38096645#t38096645) was simply, "Breathe, Arthur. Breathe." This brought to mind my days at the boxing gym, and this is the result. Also, although this is technically Gen, in my head they're in an established relationship.
> 
>  **Beta** : my angel of a friend[](http://night-reveals.livejournal.com/profile)[ **night_reveals**](http://night-reveals.livejournal.com/). All remaining mistakes are mine, of course.

_Thwack_

Arthur’s left hook lands squarely on the pad, a perfectly concise, laser-focused punch that channels all of his power into one economical motion. It shoots a thrill right down to his toes.

“Brilliant. Again! The whole combination this time. Remember to block my uppercut,” Eames is authoritative but not shouting. His face is a frown of pure intense concentration. He puts the pads up again, ready to meet each strike with choreographed precision.

The gym echoes with the sounds of rapid-fire thumps and sharp, harsh exhalations at each movement.

When the combination has been repeated past the point of Arthur losing focus and getting sloppy, and back to him reigning in his body out of sheer force of will, Eames finally lets him stop.

Arthur stands with his shoulders slumped, chest heaving. Sweat soaks through his grey tank, leaving broad dark splotches that threaten to bleed to every last inch of the material.

Eames shows his own signs of fatigue, having worked with Arthur for the better part of the last two hours skipping, working the speed and heavy bags, and finally putting Arthur through the paces on the pads.

“Okay, go grab some water. We’re getting in the ring next,” Eames says.

A tiny part of Arthur’s brain thinks Eames is a sadist, but a bigger part stoically squashes down the urge to complain. When Arthur had trained in martial arts he had earned himself the nickname “The Machine”, so although this is the first time he’s tried regular boxing, he’s no stranger to this sort of punishing regime. Besides, he’ll be damned if he’ll let Eames best him at this, even if he is acting as coach in this situation.

Arthur leans over the fountain and takes the water in sips, careful not to drink too quickly or too much. He stands and takes a breath, wiping the stray droplets off his lips with the back of his wrist and decidedly not grimacing at the touch of his smelly and sweat-sodden wraps on his face. He straightens his shoulders and mentally resets himself for the ring work.

When he steps in, Eames gives him space and doesn’t fall into stance just yet.

“We won’t bother with head gear, so stick to body shots. Remember to keep your hands up and body protected,” Eames steps over to the clock affixed to the support pillar adjacent to the ring. He presses a few buttons and the red digital display resets to three minutes. “You ready?”

Arthur nods, and Eames hits the button, returns to Arthur and they’re on.

They both widen their stance, fists up and they begin to circle. Arthur throws a few jabs towards Eames’s chest, which Eames parries easily and counters with his own.

They trade punches, landing some, deflecting most to take the sting off. Arthur is beginning to think they’ve found a rhythm and decides to break it just to keep Eames on his toes.

He throws a big right hand straight down the middle, aiming for Eames’s sternum. Eames blocks it, as expected, so Arthur aims a left hook directly to Eames’s shoulder which is now open, and it lands with a satisfying grunt from Eames.

Arthur barely has time to be pleased with himself before Eames ducks and comes up with an uppercut, catching Arthur under the ribs and pain explodes through him.

He wasn’t prepared, hadn’t blocked, hadn’t prepared his body for the assault. And it’s ludicrous but he’s had the wind knocked out of him for the first time since he was a teenager. He’s struggling to drag in a breath while at the same time swallowing his panic. _Breathe. This will pass, this will pass. Breathe. Fuck._  Arthur tries to steady himself but nothing is putting air in his fucking lungs.

Eames sees instantly what has happened and squares himself up, dropping his stance entirely. In the space of only a few seconds Eames rips the velcro of his gloves off with his teeth and with a sharp jerk shakes both gloves to the ground. He grabs one of Arthur’s gloved hands in his own and holds it to his broad chest.

Eames exaggerates his breath and locks onto Arthur’s eyes. “Breathe, Arthur. Breathe. Look at me. Breathe in time with me.”

Arthur wants so badly not to need this, but it’s working. Focusing on Eames’s breath takes his mind off his own, and in a few moments he finds himself breathing in synch with Eames’s rising and falling chest.

A moment before gets Arthur has a chance to get embarrassed, Eames drops Arthur’s hand and grins at him.

“I thought I told you to block my uppercut.”

Arthur laughs, relieved. “Fuck off. Just fuck right off.”

\---End---


End file.
